


Burn With Me

by ShannaraIsles



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deception, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Seduction, The Chantry (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29210043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: What starts as obedience becomes devotion. As the Chantry grows sterner and the world catches fire, is it better to burn together or apart?
Relationships: Female Hawke/Sebastian Vael
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome all!
> 
> Quick orientation - this story begins around 8 years before the events of Origins or II, and centers around the canonical Hawkes' elder sister. Basically, I feel personally offended by not being allowed to even smooch Sebastian, so this is my fix it fic. Enjoy!

* * *

“Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned.”

“Be at peace with the Maker, child. Share with Andraste’s guiding hand the sins that weigh upon you.”

There was a soft sigh, and the quiet voice began to speak, small in the enclosed space of the Chantry confessional.

“I have sinned in thought and in words,” the young lay sister said. “I do not want to be here. My thoughts wander often to the home I was taken from. I have harsh thoughts about the ones who brought me here. I have found myself wanting them to be harmed for what they have done to me. And ...”

A long pause followed before the gentle voice of the Revered Mother spoke again to prompt the supplicant.

“And?”

“I have lied, Mother,” the quiet voice continued, almost reluctant even in the sanctuary of the confessional to be open and honest about her faults. “I am asked so often who it is I am protecting. I know they think they will be able to help if they know the honest truth, but I do not think so. So I lied. I feigned ignorance at first, and now I simply refuse to answer, even when they tell me that my disobedience will see me condemned to the Void. I would rather suffer a thousand years in nothingness than break my silence. Does that make me evil?”

“What good does it do you to lie, child?”

“It does _me_ no good at all, Mother. But it does good for someone else, someone I love very much.”

“Love is a great motivator,” the Revered Mother said solemnly. “Yet there are times when actions taken in the name of love only serve to advance great evil. I do not believe you are evil, child. But in continuing to lie, you are endangering your place at Andraste’s side.”

“That is my risk to take, surely? It is my choice to endanger myself.”

In the hidden annex adjoining the confessional, Grand Cleric Elthina frowned, frustrated by the confession. She had heard this young lay sister confess to the mothers many times, to no avail. No matter how the question was asked, the answer was never forthcoming. The Templar method had not worked in Ferelden; nor had the harsh interrogation of the Revered Mothers in Kirkwall. Moving the girl here, to Tantervale, had been an attempt to convince her that the Chantry was not her enemy; that in continuing to protect the mage she had deliberately placed herself in danger for, she was only harming herself. Kind words and gentle guidance were not doing the job. It was time for a new approach.

Carefully, she closed the listening panel, cutting off the sound of the girl’s circular confession with a shake of her head. She had hoped it would not come to this, but there was _one_ other option open to her. Even after two years within the Chantry, she did not think he would offer much in the way of objections. Not if _she_ asked it of him.

Elthina smiled to herself in satisfaction. Yes, this was the best approach. And when it was done, they would have all the evidence they needed to remove the stain of the mage-defender from the Chantry altogether. 

In the confessional, the Revered Mother sighed wearily.

“Child, do you confess to be absolved, or simply to confess?”

Freya Hawke bit down on a sardonic smile in the darkness of the enclosed cubby. She wasn’t entirely convinced no one could see her when she was in here. 

“I confess because that is what must be done, Mother,” she said, offering her best impression of innocence and calm. “I have been made a lay sister of the Chantry. I will share with my confessor my sins, but not the reasons for them.”

“Do you not think that the reason for the sin is, perhaps, the darkness that stains your soul?” Mother Oreia pushed gently.

Freya rolled her eyes, hoping it wasn’t an audible expression. Callum always said she had very audible eyes, whatever the hell that meant. 

“I think it is a matter of perspective, Mother,” she said. “I do not see it as a darkness at all. If the Maker is our creator and forgiving of our faults, as I have been taught, then He is greater than I am. If _I_ can forgive myself for my sins, there is no reason He, with his greater heart and kindness, would not. Is there?”

She knew she had both infuriated and shocked the Revered Mother, judging by the indignant silence from the other side of the shielded panel. There was practically steam seeping through the ornately carved screen. Perhaps she had gone too far with that one. This Revered Mother actually seemed to care about her flock, unlike some of the others. 

After a long moment, the gentle voice spoke again, the tone tight with restrained emotion. 

“Andraste bless you, child,” she said, the formulaic words feeling hollow in the face of what Freya had just thrown at her. “Speak the Chant for one hour at sunset, and reflect upon your sins. May the Maker look kindly upon your offering.”

“Thank you, Mother. May the Maker’s light shine upon you.”

Relieved to have got through yet another poorly disguised attempt at interrogation, Freya rose from her knees, turning to knock upon the dark oak door of the confessional. A moment later, it was opened for her by the lay brother there, who barely even glanced in her direction before gesturing for the next confessor to enter and bare their soul to the Revered Mother. 

As she had done every day after confession since she had been brought to the Tantervale Chantry, she made her way to the votive candles set near the brazier, taking a taper to light a votive of her own. Holding the flickering candle in her palms, she stared into the dancing flame, offering up her own prayer to Andraste and the Maker in the secret silence of her heart.

_Please, let this have been worth it. Keep Bethany and the others safe. I will endure however many years of this gentle torture you desire, so long as my family stay hidden from the Chantry._

There was no answer; there never was. But there was a softer peace that came with putting the lives of those she loved into the hands of Andraste and the Maker, a confidence in the core of the faith that had congealed itself into the corruption of the Chantry. Freya had always believed in the Maker, in Andraste, yet the Chantry had always tried to tear her family apart. She could never forgive them for the fact that her father and sister would have to live their entire lives in fear, just for being born with a gift. 

With a last whispered prayer, mouthing the words the watching templar expected to hear from anyone leaving a candle, she set the hopeful flicker of wax and flame down beside all the other offerings, bowing her head for a long moment before stepping back. She was not a sworn sister, just a lay sister - that meant there were chores to do. _So_ many chores. And today was her turn in the herb garden.

Flicking her thick braid back over her shoulder, she made her way out of the Chantry chapel and through the cloisters to where Sister Heloise was waiting for her. The stern old sister had one hand on her hip, and the other drumming against the smooth willow hurdles that made up the fence around the garden. She frowned at Freya as the younger woman reached her. 

“Late again,” she snapped, brushing off any attempt at an apology. “Get to work, sister. You will be here until the bell is rung for the Evening Chant.”

“Oh, but ... I am supposed to be helping lead the Evening Chant tonight, Sister Heloise,” Freya said, attempting to sound both apologetic and pious.

Heloise’s smile was less than angelic.

“Then you had better work fast, hadn’t you?” Her thin-lipped smile dropped into a ferocious scowl. “Get to it.”

Biting down on the urge to tell the old trout to crawl up her own backside - she’d done that once and still had the bruises on her backside from the beating it had earned her - Freya nodded, twisting the sleeves of her robes up to her elbows as she walked into the fragrant garden. If she’d known how much back-breaking labour was involved in being a lay sister of the Chantry, she would have fought harder not to be brought in by the templars. Ah, the clarity of hindsight. She just had to keep them ignorant for as long as possible; give her family time to relocate safely, and then drop misinformation innocently to keep the templars from ever finding them. It was not an impossible task.

And if, somehow, she found a way to make Sister Heloise eat dirt, so much the better. The Maker _did_ smile on those who fixed their own problems, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

The hours between breakfast and midday Chant were supposed to be for reflection and contemplation. In reality, however, it was the  _ best _ time of day to catch up with all the juicy gossip from the rest of the Tantervale Chantry via the initiates and other lay persons. So long as their giggling wasn’t overheard by the sworn sisters, priests, or mothers, they could while away those hours indulging in something few of them had really expected to find behind the cloister walls - friendship. It was Freya’s favourite part of the day by far.

With her small handwritten copy of the Chant in hand, she made her way to the scriptorium library under the eyes of the ever-watching templars, quietly winding her path between the desks of scribbling scribes to the reading nook set aside for just such a purpose. It was not a surprise to find two other women around her own age there - Catalina and Ines, both initiates who were not so much devoted to Andraste as they were to the pretty recruits in the templar barracks. They shuffled along the bench seat to make room for her, all three sharing friendly smiles before bending their heads over their devotional texts in a display of contemplation that would make even the Divine proud. 

Of course, this lasted just long enough for the brother overseeing the scriptorium to pass by on his rounds, the three women leaning just that little bit closer together in order to whisper to one another in the quiet.

“So did he talk to you?” Ines asked, nudging Catalina, who blushed prettily behind the skim of dark hair at her cheekbones.

“No,” she said, careful not to look up from her book. “But he did take my hand to help me up again.”

“And? Is he as handsome up close as everyone says he is?”

Freya cast a curious glance at the pair of them, lost in their conversation. She had no idea what this excitement was all about, but she knew they would fill her in as soon as the moment arose for it. Catalina was still blushing, her smile just a little wicked as she answered. 

“More handsome,” she told her friends. “His eyes are sure a pure, bright blue, and he’s so tall and broad-shouldered, and his robes fit him  _ very _ well.”

Ines giggled with her, both initiates doing their best to keep the silly sounds as quiet as possible. Freya rolled her eyes indulgently, tilting her head toward them, though to the casual observer she was still just reading her copy of the Chant. 

“Who are we talking about?” she murmured through barely moving lips.

“The lay brother who was transferred here, Brother Vael,” Ines answered, somehow managing to sound excruciatingly excited while also barely audible. “He arrived this morning, and I swear, Revered Mother Oreia practically swooned when he smiled at her.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Catalina said. “I walked straight into him and fell over, and he didn’t so much as budge an inch. The man is toned and hard in  _ all _ the right places.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking your vows this year?” Freya asked them teasingly.

“For Sebastian Vael, I would break them in a heartbeat,” Catalina said without a moment’s hesitation. “Maker’s breath, I would break them just for a kiss from him. Apparently he is  _ quite _ the experienced lover.”

“How -”

Freya cut herself off as one of the scribes working nearby cleared his throat pointedly, warning the gossiping trio of the approach of the lay brother on his rounds. She closed her mouth, the three of them resuming their meek and modest reading as Brother Anselm made his slow way past, nodding approvingly at the signs of devotional contemplation in these young women of the Chantry. The scribe flashed a grin in their direction as Freya glanced up, returning to his work while the women returned to their conversation. 

“How do you know about his experience?” Freya whispered, intrigued now by this unknown newcomer to Tantervale’s cloistered halls. 

“Oh, he has a reputation that precedes him,” Ines supplied before Catalina could answer. “He was one of the princes of Starkhaven, you know, and he was so wild that his parents thought he was almost certain to throw a bastard.”

“Nobles aren’t known for asking before they take,” Freya began, but her friends were quick to correct her assumption.

“He had my cousin,” Catalina said, “and she was very clear that he always asks first. He’s  _ very _ good with his mouth, if you know what I mean.”

Freya had to turn her laugh into a coughing fit. She  _ did _ know what Catalina meant; she was almost certain Catalina  _ didn’t _ know what she meant, and Ines definitely didn’t. The two of them had been in the Chantry since they were children, after all. They read romance novels smuggled in by family members for them, and sighed over the handsome brothers and templars who passed through the halls. It was rather adorable that they were so easily enamoured of a man who seemed to have been something of a town mule. If he was  _ that _ easy to ride, no wonder his royal parents shoved him away in case of accidents.

“Apparently he is terribly polite and kind, and an awful flirt,” Ines added  _ sotto voce _ .

“If he’s such a success, why is he here?” Freya murmured, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. 

“I heard it was because he was  _ too _ successful,” Ines said. “He seduced the Knight-Commander of the Gallows in Kirkwall and she almost released him from the Chantry before Grand Cleric Elthina put a stop to it.”

“ _ I _ heard he deflowered an entire order of initiates in Starkhaven after he was accepted as a lay brother, and it only took him a year to get to half the sisters and mothers there too,” Catalina offered from between the other two. “ _ And _ I heard that he was sent to Val Royeaux for punishment, but it just made him more defiant.”

“The Grand Cleric is furious, they say,” Ines said, covering the movement of her lips with her fingers for a moment. “What if he’s had  _ her _ , too?”

“Ines!” Catalina gasped. “What young man would want an old trout like her in his arms? Besides, I thought she was the only reason he wasn’t being thrown out of the Chantry altogether.”

“Perhaps him being here is his last chance,” was Ines’ supposition in answer. “Maybe they’re giving him the benefit of the doubt and trying a kinder approach.”

_ That _ piqued Freya’s interest most certainly. It made sense, in a way; the Chantry had tried punishment and harshness with her, to no avail. Their last option was to try and kill her defiance with kindness, and it seemed as though they were now attempting to cure a man of healthy desire and lust for life with it, too. She couldn’t help wondering if this approach had ever worked for the institution before. They definitely seemed to have faith in it.

A sharp elbow caught her in the ribs as Brother Anselm passed them by once more. She stifled her gasp, flicking a glare toward Catalina, only to find her two friends staring toward the door of the scriptorium, wide-eyed and red-faced. She, too, turned her head to look in that direction, seeing only a tall, sandy-haired brother’s back as he talked quietly with Sister Garahel. What was so arresting about that?

She was about to glance back to her friends with that same question when the brother turned, and even she caught her breath as his eyes met hers across the busy silence of the room. Bright, pure blue pierced her, their expression first curious, then warming, matching the charming quirk of half a smile on full lips before she snatched her gaze away, feeling her heart hammering in her chest.  _ Sweet Andraste, that is one  _ handsome _ man. _

Beside her, she heard Catalina swallow a squeak, almost vibrating in place on the bench, but forced herself to stare, unseeing, at the cursive words on the page on her lap. Boots came into the edge of her vision, peeking out from under the white and gold drape of a lay brother’s robe, the owner coming to a halt in front of the bench where they all sat. 

“Good morning, sisters. May I join you for this morning’s contemplation?”

For just a moment, Freya thought she might have forgotten how to breathe. That voice just wasn’t fair. It was smooth and soft, a tender brogue that declared him to be from Starkhaven, layered with knowingly seductive confidence, like warm molasses pouring wickedly over pebbled skin. To have  _ that _ voice come out of  _ that _ face, it was devilishly sinful; worse, that he was clearly a member of the Chantry like her. And then the other shoe dropped.

“Oh, of course, Brother Vael,” she heard Ines simper, feeling herself all but shoved bodily off the end of the bench to make space for this notorious lay brother to take a comfortable seat beside Ines herself. 

Of  _ course _ it was Brother Vael. No wonder he had been forced into the Chantry - he had the face of an angel, the voice of a devil, and judging by the way his robes draped on him, the body of a desire demon. And the Grand Cleric  _ really _ thought he could be rehabilitated in Tantervale’s Chantry, where the rule of the Chant was stricter than anywhere else and the inhabitants repressed enough to undress with the merest provocation? He was going to cut a swathe through the initiates, that was for sure.

Not her, though. She was worldly enough to know not to dally with a man who put so little stock by intimacy of any kind, and it wasn’t as though she was so ignorant of the practicalities of such intimacy, either. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire him from afar, right? Everyone needed a little ... inspiration ... for those lonely moments in the dark of the night. Brother Vael would do nicely.

Freya bit her lip, perched awkwardly on the very edge of the bench, listening to her friends hyperventilating at the closeness of the infamous Brother Vael. Listening to him murmur the Chant in that sinfully tempting voice, unconsciously clenching her thighs tight together as though that might stop the lustful tingle every word drew from her. He was just a man. Like any other man; in fact, worse than any other man. He was both a member of the Chantry  _ and _ nobility. He was practically the enemy. Or he would be, if he wasn’t so obviously being punished the way she was in the hope of changing his behaviour. Did that make him a possible ally in this place full of insincere smiles and empty faith? She didn’t know. 

But she was going to have to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Warm sun on bare skin, the rough rasp of wool beneath her; strong hands twinned with hers, anchoring her as she writhes, desperate to stay quiet enough not to be caught as he drinks his fill of her. Cheeks rough with newly grown stubble scraping her inner thighs, hot breath, hungry mouth, the trembling, tingling rise toward shuddering glory, looking down into eyes of piercing blue - _

Freya let out a yelp as Sister Gerda’s cane smacked hard against her backside, shocking her out of her heated fantasy with unexpected pain. The old woman frowned at her, shaking her head. 

“More work, less dawdling,” she said, pausing to watch as Freya nodded to her, smoothing the damp sheet over the line before pegging it in place. 

Laundry was always the most back-breaking of the work the lay sisters had to do, and somehow, Freya always ended up on hanging duty, having to haul the heavy baskets of wet washing up the steep hill from the bath-house by the stream and through the cloisters of the Chantry to the wide courtyard where the lines were set out. Not alone, of course; there were always several other lay brothers and sisters assigned to the task, but Tantervale Chantry was a big place, and there were always a  _ lot _ of linens to haul about and hang. 

Under Gerda’s suspicious gaze, Freya reached for the next sheet in her basket, careful not to let it skim the cobbles beneath her feet as she threw it up and over the line, stretching up to smooth the coarse linen along the taut string before pulling pegs from the pouch on her hip. She could have sworn she  _ felt _ the old woman’s gaze leave her before hearing the clack of the cane against the cobbles again. No doubt she was going to be reprimanded -  _ again _ \- for being caught not attending to her chores with all due diligence.

“That looked like quite the crack.”

She could have groaned as she heard that voice.  _ That _ voice. Sinful molasses with a Starkhaven air, it could only belong to Brother Vael. 

“What did you do to get that taste of the Maker’s love?” he asked, coming into her periphery with another big basket of wets sheets. 

_ Just keep walking, _ she wanted to tell him.  _ Keep walking, find another corner of the courtyard. Don’t stay here where no one can see you or me without coming around the lines. _ Well, most of her wanted to tell him that. There was a small, insistent part of her that wanted to immediately confess to the fact that he had the starring role in the naughty daydream she had been caught indulging in just now. 

“Stopped for a minute,” was what she eventually said, sticking pegs in her mouth to discourage further conversation as she reached up to peg the sheet into place. 

“Here, let me.”

Before she had a chance to object, she felt him close against her back, one hand covering hers on the washing line. Calluses on his fingers brushed with rough gentleness against her skin, sending a rushing tingle up along her arm even as he took the peg from her grasp to place it for her. 

“I-I can do it,” she muttered through her mouthful of pegs, annoyed by her own stutter in reaction to his touch. 

“You shouldn’t have to,” Sebastian answered, his voice low against her ear as his hand dropped to her mouth. “I’ve the height to do it easily. Let me help you.”

Whatever she might have said in answer was forgotten in a sudden desire to hold her breath, freeze in place,  _ anything _ not to give him the tell-tale sound of her gasp as his thumb brushed her lower lip. The action was innocent enough; he was just claiming another peg from between her teeth. But ...  _ sweet Andraste, have mercy. _ The bolt of pure desire that grounded itself in liquid flame between her legs was not to be denied. She desperately wanted to lick her lips, the part of her that craved touch demanding to be sated with just the barest backward lean. Would he react, or would he pull away? Would she feel anything but that ridiculous buckle on his belt?

“Don’t forget to breathe, Freya,” she heard him murmur through a low chuckle, the second peg placed before he stepped away from her to attend to his own basket. 

Grabbing the pegs out of her mouth, she let out an explosive breath as though all she had been waiting for was his permission to do so. Her teeth clenched together as she realized this, glaring in his direction for a moment. What was wrong with her? He was  _ just _ a man. All right, so he was a very handsome man. With a gorgeous voice. And beautiful eyes. And a hard frame that she had wanted to melt into  _ so _ much ...  _ Stop it. Get a grip _ .

“How’d you know my name?”

Those deceptively pure blue eyes found hers as he shook out one of the silk linen sheets. Apparently  _ he _ was trusted with the Grand Cleric’s laundry. Did that mean he also washed the old witch’s smalls for her? Freya tried not to snort with laughter at the thought, schooling her expression into something approaching innocence as he tilted his head curiously in her direction.

“I asked your friends,” Sebastian told her, as though it was nothing to be suspicious of. “Sister Catalina and Sister Ines. You didn’t seem too comfortable when they wedged you on the end of the bench yesterday morning; I wanted to apologize for your discomfort.”

“Oh.” 

She hoped the disappointment didn’t show, though she was a little annoyed she felt disappointed at all.  _ What did you expect, that he would ask about you because you’re, like,  _ so _ pretty? _ It should have been a relief, surely, that his intention was so innocent.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she assured him, shaking her head. “They’re very friendly, I’m sure they just wanted you to feel welcome.”

“Sister Ines has certainly gone out of her way to make sure I know where everything is,” he said in agreement. “A little  _ too _ eager, perhaps.”

Freya’s brows rose as she glanced over at him. She hadn’t expected to hear him say something like  _ that _ . Ines  _ was _ a little over-eager, especially when it came to trying to seduce handsome men, but surely a man with his reputation should be ready to leap on such willingness? But then ... the reputation did not mean any of the stories were true. Maybe she should stop judging people on first appearances and impressions. Mind you, if she hadn’t done that in Amaranthine, Bethany would be in a Circle by now. 

“Like I said, she’s friendly,” she told Sebastian, smoothing another sheet over the line. “She’s been in the Chantry since she was ten years old; she likes meeting new people.”

“Ah, yes, that must be it.” He nodded, shaking out a heavy weight of damp wool. “And what of you? You seem rather more worldly than your initiate companions.”

She shook her head, avoiding his gaze. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve been here about four months, and it wasn’t by choice. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

This time, she felt his approach just a moment before his larger hand covered hers, but failed to stifle the gasp at the electric contact. Unable to pull away, she was forced to raise her eyes to his, finding his expression calm and gentle, and almost sympathetic. 

“I can understand that feeling,” he said quietly, that warm voice pouring over her once again to ignite the embers she had almost quenched once again. “Should you ever wish to talk, I am here to listen.”

Just like that, her eyes narrowed, any sense of desire quelled in the face of someone who was asking to know secrets she was unwilling to tell. Why would he be so open, so willing to offer her a friendly ear? He had been here only two days; they had only just introduced themselves to one another. Her friends’ words came back to her ...  _ Elthina is the only reason he is still in the Chantry. He’s her weapon. _ Pulling her hand out of his grasp, she frowned, shaking her head yet again. 

“My secrets are my own, Brother Vael,” she said, as firmly as she dared. “And not even a pretty face will drag them from me. Do remember to tell the Grand Cleric that when she asks you for an update on the situation.”

She didn’t stop to see what happened to his expression, turning to stab the peg into place before bending to snatch up her now-empty basket. How stupid did these people think she was? Cruelty hadn’t worked; kindness wasn’t working; so now they were trying, what, seduction? And Sebastian Vael clearly wasn’t as good at it as he thought he was. Ignoring the way her hand tingled still with the memory of his touch, she batted the sheets out of her way, anxious to escape his thoughtful gaze, trying to ignore the little voice inside that was loudly wondering why he wasn’t trying to stop her. Didn’t he  _ want _ to do his mistress’ bidding? Surely he would come after her, beg her forgiveness, promise her something no one else could give her. Wasn’t that the way this was supposed to go?

But the expected call, the expected touch on her arm ... they never came. And a part of her - a quiet, wicked little part that longed for touch and taste and intimacy of a kind forbidden to her within these walls - that part of her was deeply disappointed.  _ Oh, grow up, Freya. So you’re not irresistible on your own merits, so what? One dick is as good as another, and  _ that _ dick wants more than just a roll. Find another one to dally with. Don’t you dare pine over a pair of pretty eyes, not again. _

And behind her, that pair of pretty eyes watched, thoughtful and calculating, above the barest hint of a smile. It seemed as though the plan was already working.


End file.
